It is a domestic purgatory. And I am addicted to it.
I stand on the balcony of the master suite, overlooking the grounds. It is mid-afternoon. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and salt. From here, I can see the glass roof of the conservatory glinting in the sun. I know she is in there. I checked the cameras five minutes ago. She is working on a new canvas, her face smudged with charcoal, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
She is painting the cliffs. But in the shadows of the rocks, she is hiding monsters. I saw the outline of a wolf in the charcoal strokes.
I smile, taking a sip of my espresso. She is processing her trauma through art. She is making sense of her cage.
Then, I hear it.
It is a sound so faint, so out of place in the natural symphony of the woods, that anyone else would have missed it.
Whirrrrrr.
It sounds like a pissed-off hornet. But hornets don't maintain a constant, mechanical frequency.
I freeze. My senses shift instantly from relaxed to lethal. I scan the tree line, my eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun.
There.
Hovering fifty feet above the north perimeter fence, just below the tree canopy. A black speck.
It’s a drone.
A quadcopter. Military grade, by the look of the stabilization. It’s not moving erratically like a toy flown by a tourist. It is holding a perfect, steady hover. Its camera lens is pointed directly at the conservatory.
The ceramic cup in my hand shatters.
Hot coffee scalds my hand, dripping onto the stone balcony, but I don't feel it. I only feel the cold, white-hot rage flooding my veins.
It is looking at her.
Someone is watching my wife. Someone is violating the sanctity of my walls, peering into the glass box where I keep my most precious possession.
"Nikolai," I whisper. The name tastes like bile.
I don't run. Running attracts attention. I turn and walk back into the bedroom, moving with purposeful, deadly speed.
I go to the safe in the wall. I punch in the code.Beep. Beep. Beep. Click.
I bypass the handguns. This requires range. I pull out the HK416 assault rifle. I check the magazine. Full. I grab a suppressor and thread it onto the barrel.
I grab my tablet from the desk. I sync it to the Estate’s electronic warfare suite. I tap the screen, isolating the frequency the drone is using to transmit.
Signal Origin: 1.2 miles North-Northwest. Static position.
The operator is close. He’s sitting in a car, or crouching in the bushes just beyond my property line, thinking he is clever. Thinking he is safe.
He is wrong.
I holster a Glock 19 at my hip and clip a hunting knife to my belt. I slide the rifle onto its sling, letting it hang across my chest.
I look at the monitor. The drone is still there, watching.
I need to move. I need to hunt.
But first, I need to secure the asset.
I cannot leave Ivy in the conservatory. It’s a glass house. If the drone is a spotter for a sniper team...
